


The Prodigal Godson

by terrys_chocklit_orange



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 03:17:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19939333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terrys_chocklit_orange/pseuds/terrys_chocklit_orange
Summary: Whatever happened to Warlock, anyway?(Brief, one-sided Warlock/Crowley, but he gets over it quickly.)





	The Prodigal Godson

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a post on the Good Omens Kink Meme, but I won't say I filled it as they wanted something quite different.

“Terribly sorry to wake you, dear boy,” Aziraphale says, in the most unapologetic voice Crowley has ever heard.

Crowley jolts upright with an undignified, un-demonly snort. “It's fine. I wasn't sleeping.” He stretches, his back cracking. _Blessed chaise longue_. He told Aziraphale wicker wasn't the way to go, even for the conservatory, but Aziraphale had insisted it was necessary for a cottage.

“Oh, no?”

“Just...resting my eyes.”

“Hm.” Crowley doesn't need to look to know that Aziraphale's lips are pursed. “I thought you were going to see to the garden this afternoon.” 

“I will. Still plenty of time.” He looks out the picture windows, past Aziraphale's stained glass suncatchers, to see that it is, in fact, dusk, and the garden remains unseen to. “Oh. I...” 

“No bother. Although I was hoping to have some tomatoes for tonight's salad.” 

Crowley can take a hint. He stands, but before he can go out, Aziraphale continues: “I met a lovely new woman with the rambling club today.” There was a time, not very long ago, that Crowley couldn't have imagined Aziraphale doing any sort of rambling other than verbal. A lot has changed since they moved to the South Downs. A _lot._ “Cynthia. She just retired. Was an investment banker in the City. Lovely woman. I told her about my wonderful husband,” he goes on quickly, as if Crowley might be jealous of this recently retired investment banker named Cynthia. As if. “She asked if we had any children.” Aziraphale says this part hesitantly, as if his answer had been something other than “No fucking way,” or maybe just heartfelt laughter. “I told her we were not blessed like that.”

“That's one word you could use for it.” Not the one Crowley would have chosen.

“But,” Aziraphale goes on, “I said that we have a lovely grown-up godson called Adam who just got married to a very nice Buddhist he met on the World Wide Web.” 

“Nobody has said that for decades, angel.” 

“What, Buddhist?” 

Crowley stifles a sigh. “I thought you wanted me to bring in some tomatoes.” 

“I do! It just...” Aziraphale's expression turns wistful. It's one Crowley knows well, in the context of bakeries and sweet shops and “Oh, no, Crowley, dear, I really shouldn't have another. Well, maybe one more couldn't hurt...” In this context, it makes Crowley wary, and a little bit anxious. 

“Just what?” 

“It made me think about Warlock.” 

“Warlock?” 

“He was our first born, darling. You know what I mean,” Aziraphale adds, before Crowley can interject. “And you were his surrogate mother for years. You must wonder how he turned out.”

“We know how he turned out. He's a little shit.”

“When he was eleven! He'll be all grown up now. I just thought I'd like to know how he's doing.” 

There's not much Crowley can say about that. Instead, he says, “I'll go get the tomatoes,” and stands. “Get the salad started, sweetheart.” He kisses Aziraphale lightly on the lips—this being one of the other things that have changed since they moved to the South Downs, where life is slow enough that Aziraphale finally caught up with him—and opens the door to the garden. 

***

The guy at the back table is so much Warlock's type, it hurts. Physically. He wants nothing more than to get on his knees, right there in the corner of Luigi's Bistro, and knock the guy's sunglasses off with the wettest, messiest, hottest blowjob of his life. Since that wouldn't be a great career move, and since the man is sitting in Amani's section, all Warlock does is sneak covert glances as he deals with his own customers. 

He's an older guy, which Warlock likes fine. Tom was ten years older than him. “Daddy issues”, Amani would probably call it, but fuck her. This man's got a hungover party boy aesthetic about him, with his sunglasses indoors and his all-black ensemble, even though it's a reasonably hot day for London. His hair is carefully styled. _Begging to be messed up_ , Warlock thinks. The colour is unusual, a sort of dark coppery red he rarely sees. In fact, the last time Warlock knew someone with hair that colour was...

“Hey.” Amani snaps her fingers at him. “Wake up. Guy at table eight wants to see you.” 

“Me?” Warlock's voice squeaks. 

Amani narrows her eyes. “Yeah. You. He a friend of yours?”

“No.” _Not yet?_

“Well, if it's some 'indecent proposal' shit, do that on your own time. You're not stealing my tip.” 

“Whatever.” Warlock scoffs. He counts to thirty, then saunters over, his face the picture of cool, he hopes, even as his stomach flips. When he arrives at the table, he smiles at the guy, who seems to be having only a glass of wine, and says, “Can I help you, sir?” In his most professionally sultry voice. 

“You're American.” The guy replies. 

“Sort of.” It's a long story. “But I've been here for a long time.” 

“What's your name?” 

“Warlock, sir.” He's used to double-takes on that one. He's thought about changing it, many times, but he can't decide what he'd want instead. That's the story of his life. He spends so long examining all sides of every situation, he can't ever seem to make a fucking decision. 

This guy doesn't look surprised, though. “How are you doing, Warlock?” 

Warlock blinks. “I'm fine, thank you, sir. How, ah, how are you?” 

“Peachy.” There's something familiar about him. Maybe they have met before, but Warlock can't imagine forgetting a man like this. 

The man drums his fingers on the table. He stares at Warlock. At least, Warlock assumes he's staring. He can't tell. Just as he's about to ask if there's something Warlock can get him, infusing that statement with as much suggestive suavity as he can manage, the man says, “What time do you finish here?” 

Warlock's face heats. “Eight-thirty.” 

“Want to meet me for dinner?” 

Warlock swallows. “Um.” _He could be crazy_ , Warlock thinks. _He could be a mugger, a rapist, a murderer._ But he's also scorching hot, and Warlock hasn't been laid in a very long time. “All right.”

“Hasty Hamburger,” the man says. “You know it? Down the road from here?” 

“Yeah. It was my favourite place when I was a kid. But didn't it close years ago?”

“It's open again,” the man says. “Pop up restaurant. One night only.” Warlock didn't know that. “I'll meet you there at nine, OK?” 

“OK.” 

The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a matte black credit card. For a moment, Warlock has no idea what he's meant to do with it. “I'll pass it on to your server, sir,” he says, when he finally clues in. 

“Nine o'clock,” the man repeats. “Don't be late.”

“No, sir.” 

As he walks away, Warlock looks at the name on the card. Anthony J. Crowley. _Anthony_ , he repeats to himself. _I could get used to screaming that in bed._

***

Hasty Hamburger looks just as it did when Warlock was last there with Nanny Ashtoreth. The details are perfect, down to the red plastic chairs and the statue of a cheesy anthropomorphized hamburger with goggly eyes, holding one of its less sentient brethren on a plate. 

“Is it telling you to eat other hamburgers?” Warlock once asked Nanny. “Isn't that mean?” 

“You have to take care of yourself,” Nanny had replied, standard for her, but she'd seemed distracted. If Warlock remembers right, it was the one time they'd brought the gardener out for lunch with them. Warlock had requested it, as part of a special birthday treat. It was awesome. The two grownups spent hours talking to one another, and Warlock had a hamburger _and_ chips _and_ ice cream _and_ a lengthy play on the slides and climbers in the Hasty Hamburger Hall of Fun. Two days later, he came down with strep throat, which Nanny blamed on the less-than-immaculate Hall of Fun. It was totally worth it. 

Warlock never imagined having a date there, but there's lot he never imagined about his life. Since there wasn't time to get back to his flat and change, he did the best he could with his Luigi's uniform, untucking the black shirt and arranging his hair into something artfully mussed. 

“You're fucking nuts,” Amani told him, as she watched him in the mirror. “I'll ring you at nine-thirty, OK? You can pretend it's an emergency call if you need to get out of there. If you don't answer, I'm coming to look for you.” 

“I'll be fine.” 

“And if you end up spending the night with him, send me a text. I'll cover for you until you can get in tomorrow.” 

Warlock smiled. “You're the best, Amani.” 

“Tell anyone,” Amani replied, “and I'll cut your balls off.” 

For a one-night only pop up restaurant in the heart of London, Hasty Hamburger is strangely deserted. Anthony Crowley is there, still wearing the sunglasses, sitting at one of the moulded plastic tables with a tray already in front of him. Warlock's nerves return, twisting his stomach into Gordian knots. He's had a couple of Grindr hookups, but no real dates since the breakup with Tom. _Is this a real date?_ He wonders. _Do I want it to be?_

Anthony gives a cool half-wave. Warlock takes a deep breath and walks over. 

“Hey.”

“I ordered for you.” Anthony points at the tray.

“Oh. Thanks.” Warlock likes that, in a way. It means he doesn't have to make a choice, which is always a mortifying scene. It is a little forward, though. A little dominating. It sends a shiver up Warlock's spine, at the same time it sets something in his brain on edge. 

Warlock sits. It's a cheeseburger with pickles, no onions, chips with mustard instead of ketchup, and a Ribena. Exactly what he would have ordered the last time he was here, when he was eight years old. “This looks...great.” Right? “Great,” he repeats, more confidently. “What are you having?” 

Anthony waves a hand. “I'm fine.” He hadn't eaten at Luigi's either, as far as Warlock could tell. 

“You should have something,” Warlock insists, because he's all for a bit of dom/sub stuff in the bedroom, but he's not a complete shrinking violet. “My treat.” 

Anthony laughs, which Warlock guesses he deserves. Anthony looks like he's super rich, while Warlock is a bistro waiter. But that doesn't mean this is going to go only one way. “Well, at least let me get you a drink.” 

“I don't put much stock in their house white,” Anthony says, smiling. “But you can get me an Orangina.” That was Nanny's favourite, too, Warlock's brain chooses to remind him, for absolutely no reason. He goes up to the counter to order, but there's nobody there. 

“Help yourself,” Anthony advises. “We can settle up later.” 

Warlock fills a paper cup at the drinks machine, and hands it over to Anthony. “Thanks,” Anthony says, genuinely enough that Warlock doesn't feel too embarrassed. As Warlock takes a bite of hamburger, Anthony asks, “Have you been at Luigi's long?”

Warlock chews and swallows. “About a year.” 

“Where were you before that?”

Warlock shrugs. “Here and there. I worked in a pub for a bit, then another restaurant. Then a bookshop.” 

“A bookshop?”

“Yeah. That one didn't last long.” Warlock was the worst at giving recommendations to customers. Not because he hadn't read anything, but because he'd read too much, and he had no ability to make decisions. They'd come in asking for “something for my kid” and he'd send them away with fifty years' worth of children's literature.

“Did you go to university?” 

“College in the States. Just a year.” Warlock doesn't want to talk about that. “What do you do?” 

“I'm...retired.”

Early retirement, Warlock presumes. _Maybe he really is super rich._ “From what?”

“This and that. But I want to hear about you.” 

Warlock laughs. “Why?” 

“Because I'm interested, Warlock.” Normally, that would sound like a line, but looking at Anthony, Warlock doesn't get that sense. Anthony really does feel interested and, even stranger, Warlock really feels like he wants to talk. 

So he does. He tells Anthony about his distant father and his alcoholic mother, about their acrimonious divorce when he was eleven years old, about moving “back” to America, a country he'd only visited and never thought of as home. Warlock tells him about his difficult time in a private high school in Washington DC, about going to college for a year because it was expected of him, then dropping out when he realized he had no idea what he wanted to study. He tells Anthony about rejecting his parents' support and, more importantly, their money, about moving to London on his own, about meeting Tom in St. James' Park and sharing his umbrella when it started to rain. 

“Don't worry, I'm over him,” Warlock adds quickly. He's had plenty of Grindr meetings with guys who are clearly still hung on up their exes. It's not a good look. 

“What happened?” 

Warlock shrugs. “We're just different people.” Once again, just looking at Anthony makes Warlock want to say things he never has. _Maybe he's a shrink or something_ , Warlock thinks. Warlock's known enough of those. “Tom's a barrister. And he's divorced with a kid. I'm...” An English waiter who sounds American with no home and no family to speak of. 

“You're as good as him.” Anthony leans over the table, pointing emphatically. “You're as good as anyone on this planet. Don't let any bastard ever tell you otherwise. Don't even think it about yourself, because you're fucking wrong.” There's only one other person who's ever said that to Warlock, and she was just as adamant about it, if a little less profane. 

“Do you know my old nanny?” 

It's a weird thing to say. Anthony doesn't look weirded out. “If that's what she said, then she was right. If you still love this guy, then figure it out. I mean, sometimes it takes a few tries, right? A few goes before you get everything in place. You just can't give up, is all.” He sounds like he's speaking from experience. 

“Who are you?” Warlock has never met anyone like him. Or has he? Looking at the face, the hair, the sunglasses, something stirs deep in the recesses of Warlock's mind, struggling to surface. “Are you...” He frowns, trying to grasp hold of a flimsy memory. “Were you at my birthday party? When I was eleven?” The last one he had in England. The last one before his parents got divorced. The last moment of his childhood when he was truly happy. “You were a waiter.” The memory solidifies. “Weren't you?” 

If he's wrong, then this is a stupid conversation to have, but it's no stranger than any other part of this evening. But he's not wrong. Warlock is sure of it now. 

“Yeah,” Anthony says, casually. If he's surprised that Warlock remembers him, he doesn't show it. Warlock is surprised at his own memory, but he spent so much time afterwards watching videos of that party, trying desperately to relive it, to recapture the joy. It's no wonder Anthony's identity is engraved in his mind. “I was a waiter, Warlock. Just like you.” 

“And there was this really shitty magician!” Warlock laughs. He was so bad, the party devolved into a food fight. It was amazing.

“We got married.” 

“You and the magician?” Anthony nods. “Oh. Sorry.” 

“It's OK. I convinced him to give up the magic. Mostly.” 

Warlock's phone rings. Amani. “Sorry,” he says again, and picks it up. 

“Are you OK? Do you want to pretend your mother fell down the stairs or your sister has emergency gonorrhea or something?” 

Warlock hesitates. This strange situation just got stranger. He's done threesomes and stuff before, but it doesn't feel like Anthony's here to bring him back for a little fun with his husband. What this is, Warlock still doesn't know, but he isn't frightened. Anthony could never frighten him. The idea is ludicrous. He feels as certain of that as he ever has of anything. “Not today, thanks,” he tells Amani, and hangs up. 

“Fancy dessert?” Anthony asks, as Warlock puts the phone into his pocket. He still hasn't seen a single employee. 

“I'm OK.” 

“Sure? They do a great vanilla chocolate swirly ice cream.” 

Warlock remembers it. “Did you...so, did you like, come looking for me or something?” 

“The magician was wondering how you're getting on.” 

“What? Why?” 

Anthony shrugs. “You're a memorable guy. And that's the way he is. He was worried about you.” 

“That's...” A sob rises in Warlock's throat, threatening to burst out. His mother hasn't spoken to him in nine months. His father hasn't seen him in ten years. The people he loved most as a kid, his nanny and the gardener, disappeared one day and were never seen or heard from again. But a party magician he met once when he was eleven, that he heckled and pelted with cake and acted a complete shit towards, was worried about him? 

“Hey.” Anthony puts his hand on Warlock's. It doesn't feel like a come on. It feels like affection, and Warlock hasn't had that in long time. “Shit,” Anthony murmurs, standing up as Warlock starts to cry. He comes around to Warlock's side of the table. It's humiliating, but that's not enough to stop the tears. Warlock sobs in a way he hasn't since he was a kid, in a way he hasn't since he was teased in nursery school and Nanny put her arms around him, just the way Anthony puts his arms around him now, and said, “Your enemies will suffer your wrath on Judgement Day.” Anthony doesn't say that. He does say, “It's going to be OK, man. Really.” Warlock can't help himself. Anthony's chest is flat, not soft like Nanny's, but there's an odd similarity to it. Warlock rests his head against him and cries. 

Three hours later, Warlock leaves the Hasty Hamburger, still having never seen a single worker. “Don't worry about it,” Anthony says. Warlock doesn't. He feels like all his worries have disappeared, like everything wrong with his life is not only fixable, but that he's capable, prepared and ready to fix it. 

He also takes Anthony's phone number, and his address in a village near Beachy Head. “Drop by sometime,” Anthony tells him. “The magician would love to see you. And,” he adds, sighing a little, “I would, too.” 

As Warlock steps out into the night, he realizes it's raining. Anthony offered him a lift home, but it's only a quick walk to the Tube, and he's just spent the evening literally crying on the guy's shoulder. Warlock feels like he's inconvenienced him enough. 

He's almost at the station when a voice says, “Warlock?” 

Warlock turns around. It's Tom, standing with his umbrella, looking amazing in a three-piece-suit and Versace raincoat. _Well_ , Warlock thinks, standing tall. _I'm pretty damn incredible myself._ “Hi.”

“Fancy meeting you here.” Tom smiles, and Warlock can't remember a single reason why they broke up. “I was just heading home. My cab got a flat just over there,” Tom points. “I thought I'd take the Tube the rest of the way, which was so stupid, given that it's pissing down, but now I'm...sorry. I'm so glad I ran into you.”

 _You just can't give up_ , Anthony had told him. He'd also told him it had taken years for him and the magician to get together for good. “Need a hand?” Tom gestures to the umbrella. 

“Sure,” Warlock says. _Let's not take_ years _about it_ , he thinks. He moves closer, under Tom's umbrella. 

Tom looks at him, eyes bright under the fluorescent lights around them. “I...I have to say, Warlock, I've really missed you very much indeed.”

As if it's the most natural thing in the world, Warlock links his arm with Tom's. Tom doesn't pull away. Instead, he squeezes, just a little, and Warlock grins. “Feel like a trip to the South Downs sometime?” He asks, as they head towards the station. 

“The South Downs?” 

“Yeah.” Warlock smiles. “I have some friends there I'd like you to meet.” 

***

Compared to the rest of Aziraphale's friends, Cynthia _is_ a lovely woman. She brings a very good vintage when Aziraphale invites her over for supper, unlike Crowley's nemeses, John and Donna Stapleton, who dared to show up with a box of "wine" and will never darken his doorstop again. More importantly still, Cynthia knows when to leave. As she puts on her coat and boots, at the very reasonable hour of nine p.m., she looks at the photographs Aziraphale has on the wall. 

“This must be your family!” They are. Adam and his Buddhist in one picture, Warlock, Tom and their son in another. They've been to visit twice now, once with the child. Aziraphale took to grandfathering like a duck to water. Crowley is still finding Werther's Originals between the sofa cushions. “They're beautiful. You must be so proud of them.” 

“Oh, yes!” Aziraphale answers. “We certainly are.” 

_And so_ , Crowley thinks, the closest to sentimental he will ever allow himself to get, _is Nanny Ashtoreth._


End file.
